Bits and Pieces  a collection of sorts
by BajaB
Summary: A place to put all of the snippets and ideas that are never going anywhere. Mostly Crackfics.
1. Harry the Humongous

**_This is my collection of unfinished, unpolished drabbles and ideas. Think of them what you will, but it is unlikely that any will be turned into 'proper' stories. _**

_Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all related materials are the property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Brothers. I am in no way affiliated with JKR, Bloomsbury or Warner Brothers, and use their materials without their permission or knowledge_

**Harry the Humongous.**

Harry slumped down on the pathetic bed he called his own. The memory of Sirius's recent passing weighed heavily on the young boy, and the warning given to his 'family' by the Order had just made his home life even more miserable.

Besides getting fifteen minutes each day to use the bathroom, Harry was confined to the tiny bedroom and its rickety furniture.

Not that he cared. His misery left him completely unconcerned at the unjust and almost inhumane captivity.

The lack of food was more of a worry. The thin broth and small pieces of fruit pushed through the cat-flap of his door were not enough even for his scrawny body, and the supplies he had from his trunk were almost exhausted after a single day.

"If something doesn't change soon, I am going to have to do something about this," mumbled Harry to himself.

Unbidden memories of the sumptuous, elf-provided meals made Harry groan in desire. At this point, he was almost willing to risk expulsion by conjuring a simple sandwich, just as he had seen Professor McGonagall do in his second year, after they had crashed Mr. Weasley's car into the Whomping Willow. Or better yet, he wanted to make a thick stream of Mrs Weasley's delicious gravy flow from his wand, just like she did.

Harry's stomach rumbled loudly, distracting him from his unseemly thoughts.

An unfamiliar owl suddenly flew through the window and landed on top of the lopsided wardrobe, a formal looking letter attached to its leg.

"Fan-bloody-tastic. I just think about performing magic and I get a warning?" Harry thought. "The dickhead Ministry must be really edgy."

The letter however, proved to be quite a surprise, once he got past the meaningless rambling and into the important bit.

_Due to the series of unfortunate misunderstandings over the last year, the Minister has agreed to exempt you from the underage magic laws._

It went on a fair bit after that, but Harry barley read any more; his mind locked onto that single, pertinent sentence.

… _exempt you from the underage magic laws._

He could do magic, now, for any reason.

At that precises moment, a plate holding a single unbuttered slice of stale bread was pushed through the cat flap.

Harry smiled his very first smile since returning to Privet Drive, and took out his wand.

"I don't think so," he said.

With a dramatic wave of his wand and a spoken incantation, the bread was replaced - with a small white rabbit - which was a bit of a shock since he was trying for something a bit more cooked.

Hedwig squealed in delight as she swooped down to snatch the bunny away before Harry had a chance to protest.

"Come back with my dinner, you thief!" he yelled out the window at the quickly retreating form of his owl and its shrieking victim.

Finally accepting he was not going to be seeing either his meal or his familiar for some time, he turned back to the now empty plate.

"Well, so much for transfiguration," he said. "Now let's try conjuring."

His overly ambitious shot at producing a whole roast went rather well, in retrospect. At least it was dead, and definitely cooked, whatever it was. Unfortunately, the oddly shaped charcoal lump was totally inedible, as were the next few attempts to make dinner.

When one of his conjured meals appeared with flames still bursting from it, Harry decided to try for something a little easier.

The next go produced a rather sickly looking puddle of goo that could, if one had a very good imagination and a very dark room, be mistaken for pudding. At least it did, before it slithered away under the wardrobe leaving a sticky brown trail behind it.

Harry quickly pulled his legs up onto the bed and decided to come back to pudding later on.

The following five attempts were slightly better, with one actually holding its shape long enough to be identifiable as jelly, but then it exploded, showering the room in green slime.

"Not bad," said Harry, licking some of the gooey mess from his wand.

Realisation of exactly what he was doing struck, overriding his hunger, and he quickly wiped his wand off on the dirty blanket of his bed and then went back to work.

Several attempts later, Harry was contently eating something that approximated a bowl of thick soup, exact identity and composition unknown. It wasn't very good, but he knew he would get better – it was just going to take practice – lots of practice.

Another smile split his face as he enjoyed the simple pleasure of eating.

For the first time since he had seen his godfather fall through the veil, Harry was not thinking about his loss.

#

Petunia Dursley long ago allowed the true nature of her son to become buried deep inside her mind, where the light of reason didn't shine. Along with other annoying facts, like Vernon being an unmitigated pig and the neighbours hating her guts, she kept Dudley's bullying ways and enormous girth wrapped in a blanket of self-denial big enough to suffocate a baby whale.

Subconsciously however, she made allowances.

Meal sizes for her son and husband were a whole order of magnitude above anything the Board of Health recommended, and constant repairs to badly crushed furniture were quickly excused away as clear signs of the deteriorating quality in manufacturing nowadays.

So she didn't need to turn around to know it was her massive offspring causing the house to rattle its foundations as he tromped down the stairs.

"Good morning, sweetie," she said, shovelling another kilo of bacon onto Dudley's plate. "Breakfast is running a bit late, sorry. That lazy freak hasn't shown his face again today, so I've had to make it."

"Er, Aunt Petunia?" rumbled a voice behind her.

The shock of hearing Harry's voice, when she was certain it was Dudley standing there, nearly made Petunia shriek, but she quickly gained control and whirled to lambast Harry for his tardiness.

The words died on her lips at the sight that greeted her.

Harry was at least as fat as Dudley, and almost seemed to be growing bigger as he gnawed on the cooked leg of some creature considerably larger than a chicken.

"I just came down to tell you not to bother pushing anything through the flap anymore," mumbled Harry through a mouthful. "I've got my own food, so you don't need to trouble yourself."

Petunia, mouth agape, simple nodded.

Harry turned and lumbered out of the kitchen. Moments later Petunia heard the protesting creak of the stairs as Harry began his ascent.

"Vernon," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "Vernon!"

The Dursleys left on an unexpected holiday that night, and didn't bother leaving a note.

In his room, Harry puffed and panted for an hour after his journey downstairs. It was hard going, but it did give him an appetite. With a wave of his wand, he conjured a whole roast boar, complete with glazed apple in its mouth, and sat down on his bed to dig in with gusto.

#

The cabal of Death Eaters appeared on the front lawn of privet drive, splintering the morning air with the noise of their apparition. Six wands were drawn at the same time. Six wands cast the same spell at the house at the same time.

A glowing yellow dome appeared to surround the property as the spells neared the building, absorbing the attack with bright flashes.

Surprisingly, no curious heads poked out of neighbouring doors, no curtains twitched, no betraying prying eyes sneaking covert glances – it was as if the whole spectacle was invisible and inaudible to the other residents of the erstwhile quiet street.

For five minutes the ward held against the bombardment, but suddenly the yellow dome flickered and disappeared in a silent implosion.

A louder thundering crack heralded the arrival of another half a dozen black robed figures, and one unmasked, red-eyed escapee from nightmares best forgotten.

"Where is Potter?" demanded Lord Voldemort.

One of the original Death Eaters stepped forward.

"My lord, he has not shown himself. There has been no movement inside or outside of the house since we arrived."

"What? Potter has not come charging out to defend his home? I know his Muggle family left mere days after the boy returned, else we could not have broken the wards so easily, but I find it hard to imagine our hero let you attack his house with impertinence," said the Dark Lord thoughtfully. "I fully expected to find several of you dead by the time I arrived."

The Death Eater gulped, but wisely did not say anything.

Voldemort waved his hand to indicate several of his followers. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go in and get him. Bring him to me."

As five of the masked figures raced away, Voldemort conjured a high back, throne-like chair and seated himself on the front lawn of the Dursley's house to await Harry Potter.

"Rather a depressing sight, is it not, Lucius?"

"Yes, my Lord," simpered the silver haired follower. "Very, sterile."

"Yes," agreed Voldemort. "Needs more colour, don't you think?"

"Indeed, My Lord," said Lucius enthusiastically. "A more varied mixture of flowers in the beds would improve the overall feel of the garden and emphasise the lawn –"

Voldemort nodded in half-hearted agreement as he summoned a large iced tea and took a sip.

#

"Ready?" asked Reginald Billings, the senior Death Eater in charge of the five man squad assigned to be the first to assault Potter's inner stronghold. He kept his voice quiet, hoping not to alert the boy behind the closed door they were about to crash through, despite the area already having been surrounded by silencing charms.

"Hang on," whispered one of the new guys, Smith, or Smyth, or some stupid Muggle name.

He was always interrupting, suggesting new things or asking stupid questions about why they had to stick to tradition and things. Billings loathed him and was planning on using him as a human shield against the Potter boy.

"What?" he asked angrily.

"Did you check for traps?"

_There he goes again._

"Traps?"

"You know, traps. Potter might have booby trapped the door, or the stairs, now I come to think about it."

Billings growled as a couple of the squad shifted nervously from foot to foot and began looking around, as if expecting the walls to suddenly attack them.

"There's been nothing so far, what makes you think there are going to be traps here?" he asked in as menacing a voice as he could.

Despite the immobile skull faced mask covering him, Billings could tell Smith knew he was sneering at him. He knew intimidating glances weren't as effective when the intended target couldn't see your face, but he was certain they could still feel it.

"Er, because there haven't been any traps so far?" said Smith, apparently too stupid to be browbeaten. "Seems a bit suspicious, doesn't it?"

A few others in the squad made affirming noises and turned to face Billings.

_Damn,_ he thought. _He's right._

"Well done," he said. "I wondered if any of your would catch that one. Right, now let's see how good your detection charms are."

"Oookayyy," said Smith, apparently forgetting the masks still let people see you roll your eyes.

Billings considered pushing off the staircase, but decided to wait for an opportunity in the coming battle to extract revenge.

"We've got some strengthening spells on the door, floor between us and the door down there, and on the staircase," said Smith, after casting some overly complex, show off charms. "All passive spells, but multiple casts reinforcing each other. Looks like the floor is a bit dodgy and it's been magically fixed up."

Billings grunted, half in relief and half in satisfaction at smart-arse-Smith not finding anything dangerous. Teach him to second-guess his betters.

"Are we all ready now?" he asked pointedly, throwing a look at Smith. "Right. One, two, three, go!"

Billings cast the Alohorama spell and slammed his shoulder into the door forcing it to spring open.

Or at least, he tried to.

The door opened about an inch, then struck something. Billings crashed into it and rebounded, right into his squad who were rushing forwards. Crushed between the door and his own people, the Death Eater lost his breath and his wand before falling to the ground on top of two of his teammates, neither of whom was Smith, unfortunately.

"He's blocked the door," yelled Smith. "_Reducto_!"

The spell stuck the door a tad too close to Billings's head to be entirely accidental, and caused a shower of wood splinters to fall over the men tangled on the floor. Billings, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he currently was, and feeling the heat of the spell as it passed by, lurched off the pile of minions and rolled to the side of the door, wand raised and ready for the counter attack from Potter.

It never came.

#

"What is taking so long?" Voldemort asked impatiently. "I am not hearing any screams or fighting. Lucius, take Bellatrix and go see what is happening."

Lucius immediately began striding very quickly towards the house, attempting to appear calm and noble while still making his best time. Bellatrix, his insane sister-in-law, skipped along behind him happily singing a lullaby involving dead rabbits and flesh eating worms.

"Wormtail," called the Dark Lord. "Grab the next Muggle that walks by, I need a footstool."

"Yes, my lord," said Peter.

#

"What is going on, and what is that unholy stench?" asked Lucius.

"Somebody's got a stinky bum bum," cackled Bella in her baby-talk voice.

"It's Potter," gasped one of the few Death Eaters still on his feet. "Gas attack of some kind."

"Gas? It smells like arse," said Lucius, fighting back a gag.

"And Lucy's nose knows them all," laughed Bella.

"Why haven't your squad cast bubblehead charms and proceeded?" asked Lucius, raising a perfumed hanky to his nose.

"Doesn't keep it out," gasped the Death Eater, swaying dizzily on his feet as he raised his wand. "Need to light a match."

"No, stop!" yelled Lucius, but he was too late.

#

Outside, Voldemort felt the muffled concussion vibrate through the ground.

"Now that's more like it," he said happily.

#

Inside the house, the surviving Death Eaters were picking themselves up of the floor, and in one instance, out of a cupboard.

"Little boys shouldn't play with matches!" said Bellatrix.

"I agree," said Lucius. "Nobody uses anymore flame based spells, not until we figure out how to counter the spell he is using to flood the house with methane."

"It's not a spell," said the minion.

"What?"

"I said it's not a spell."

"Then what-"

A loud tearing noise rumbled through the house, shaking it to its very foundations. A wave of the putrid smell followed close behind.

"Never mind," chirped Bella brightly as Lucius heaved his breakfast up.

#

"My Lord, there is a, erm, rather large problem," said Lucius, trying to ignore the stares and guffaws of the other Death Eaters who were not so discreetly snickering at his tattered and burnt robes.

Voldemort smiled cruelly. "Putting up a good fight is he? Barricaded himself inside his room with clever and impenetrable barriers I suppose?"

The excitement in his voice was tangible.

Lucius shifted uncomfortably. "Ah, not exactly my lord. Potter has offered no resistance at all."

The Dark Lord frowned.

"Then what, pray tell, is the delay?" he asked, taking another sip of the cold tea.

"Er, the boy has, er, grown, My Lord. We are having difficulty getting him out of the door."

Voldemort sprayed his mouthful of drink over Lucius, who dared not flinch for fear of being punished.

"_He's too fat_?"

"Beyond morbidly obese, you lordship."

"Are you seriously telling me Potter has become too large for a squad of wizards to get him out of his room? It's got to be a trick, an illusion of some kind."

"I am afraid not, my Lord. We suffered several casualties when we managed to force our way into the room only to have Potter accidentally roll over onto us."

"He crushed them?"

"Yes, although there is some doubt about one of your followers as he may have escaped into one of the folds of flab near Potters arm."

"Won't last long in there I suspect."

"No, my lord."

"I see. Well I guess I will have to take care of this myself, won't I? Reducto!"

Instantly, Harry's window and most of the wall on either side of it disappeared in a loud explosion, which although it covered all of the Death Eaters on the lawn in debris, still did not attract the attention of the nearby Muggles.

"Holy Shit!" cried the Dark Lord as one of Harry's enormous buttocks broke free of the remaining debris and sagged out of the newly created hole. "His arse looks like the head of a giant octopus! What the fuck has he been eating?"

"Pudding, my lord," said Lucius. "A great deal of pudding."

"Pudding? What did he do, pipe it directly into his stomach?"

"He conjured it from his wand, like a Muggle fire hose. Dolohov interrupted him and nearly drowned in the backflow."

"Conjure food? You cannot simply conjure food out of thin air, you idiot. Surely even you know food is the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration."

"Indeed, I do," said Lucius, nodding. "Unfortunately, nobody thought to inform Potter of this fact."

"Interesting," said Voldemort thoughtfully. "There is something unusual about the speed the boy has gained weight. Maybe his conjured food has properties beyond mere sustenance."

"The pudding's great," added Bella, her mouth covered in what Voldemort sincerely hoped was indeed chocolate pudding.

"Apparently once he discovered how to conjure food, he has been consoling himself over the loss of his godfather by eating non-stop, judging by his size. We have tried removing sections of the wall, to make the doorway bigger, but he doesn't fit down the stairwell either. All attempts at shrinking him are getting nowhere too. I think his body mass is too large for the magic to work properly. Even Bella's Crucio doesn't seem to be able to penetrate his covering layer of lard, my lord."

Voldemort was cradling his head in his hands.

"What the hell does the old Muggle-loving fool think he is doing, letting the boy binge himself? Was he trying to kill him?

"Lucius, are you telling me that my loyal followers, the most feared and dangerous magical people in the world, are incapable of getting Harry Potter out of his house because the boy is too fat?"

Lucius tried to muster as much dignity as he could. "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort shook his head and rose from the throne.

An old lady walked her dog passed, completely ignoring the chaos happening at number four.

"At least the old fool knows how to cast a good Muggle repellent," mumbled Lucius as he dusted the remains of Potter's bedroom wall off his ruined robes.

With another graceful wave of his wand, the Dark Lord levitated the huge lump of flesh off the crushed frame of the bed and began moving it out of the newly created hole. It took a fair bit of jiggling and manoeuvring, since the thing in the room seemed to be unfolding as it was given more space, but eventually the whole mass cleared the wall.

Harry Potter's enormous face and head was the last thing to leave the room, his mouth chewing constantly as his hands fed food from a large bag into his maw as fast as they could while his eyes darted about nervously.

Voldemort's wand began wobbling as the strain of holding up such an enormous load took its toll.

Lucius gasped as realised his master was about to lose control, and Harry, still munching away on the gallon sized chocolate mud cake he had conjured moments before, was positioned directly overhead.

He only had a split second to realise his death was approaching before the truly huge Harry Potter landed on both him, and his master, ending the second war in most inglorious style.

"Oooohh," groaned Harry, clutching his stomach. "I think I overdid it with the mud-cake."

#


	2. Regression

_A bunny that never got used_

**Regression**

The pale and almost trembling man reached out to knock on the Frame of already open Doctor's office.

A tall, dark skinned man sat at the desk inside the room, and although he was wearing a traditional if old fashioned Doctor's coat, he did not look much like a doctor.

"Come in Mr Brekenridge," said the man, looking up from his paper work. "Take a seat. Now I understand you have been thoroughly briefed on the procedure we will be attempting today?"

Sitting in the offered chair, Brian nodded.

"Yes, Dr Worthington. I read all of the pamphlets and listened very carefully to Dr Morning when he suggested your services. I've never heard of you before, and neither has anybody I've spoke to."

The dark skinned man smiled a wide, toothy grin.

"We are a very specialised consultancy," he explained. "The only reason you have found out about us at all is due to Jake having a sister who is, er involved in our work."

Brian nodded, not actually too worried. The fee was very reasonable, and had a money back guarantee as well. If it turned out just to be another scam, well he had already spent considerably more on other better-known treatments.

"You understand we might not be able to help you get any better, and that you might even end up having worse nightmares for while because of what we are going to try here?"

"Yes, yes I do, but I am desperate, Doctor. My wife is ready to leave me, I had to quit my job – I just can't go on like this. I've tried everything over the last year, everything from vacations to drugs to séances, but nothing helps for long. Those damn Aliens have ruined my life!"

"Very well then. Now, as you know, I have asked one of my colleagues to attend your session as well. He will just be an observer, watching to see how well this treatment works. Do you wish to meet him before we start, or would you prefer he come in only after I have put you into the trance?"

"Sorry, Doctor, but I am nervous enough with having another person in the room. It could take you a while to put me under as it is," said Brian with a nervous sort of laugh.

The doctor smiled again, a friendly reassuring smile.

"I completely understand. Now please lie down on the couch and we will start. There we go, now just relax and concentrate on the light. Watch it swinging from side to side, feel it moving…_Stupefy_."

"Okay, he's out. You can come in now."

"Sorry sir, but isn't that rather underhanded?"

"Beats trying to get them into any sort of real hypnotic trance. Poor Muggle, he is having a very bad time of it. Okay, this is your show now."

"Thank you, sir. _Legilimens_."

"What do you see?"

"The car has stopped, and Brian has gotten out to help the person lying on the ground. He saw the body fall onto the road from a height, like it was dropped from a bridge, but there is no bridge or any other structure around. Not even a tree.

"He's rolled the body over, noticing one leg is missing. It's Mad-Eye Moody. This must be right after you-know-who hit him with the killing curse. He's startled, well who wouldn't be, seeing that old torn-up face, but he checks for a pulse and breathing anyway. Brave guy.

"The eye, Mad-eye's glass eye, falls out. There's blood everywhere. Great Merlin's Beard – he moved - Mad-eye moved. He survived the killing curse!"

"Calm down, Mr. Smith. Keep going; tell me what else you see."

"Right. Sorry, sir – I was just taken by surprise. There are others there now. Black robes, white masks – Death Eaters – about four. I can't tell for certain because they are using the Cruciatus on Brian. Something's happened, there are flashes of light, looks like some fairly Dark magic there, at least one Killing curse.

"It's Mad-eye. He's taken down the Death Eaters. Brian's in a bad way, but Moody is ignoring him. He's doing something to one of the bodies.

"Hang on something weird is going on, or maybe Brian actually did crack and start to see things. There are two Moodies now, but one is lying on the ground, dressed in the black robes. There's another bit of green light, a killing curse I think, and the one on the ground isn't moving anymore. The standing one is dressed differently now, and Brain can see more flashes of light – looks like the other bodies being turned into bags or something. The body that looks like Mad-eye is floating off into the trees. Mad-eye is drinking something out of a flask, and now somebody else is there. He's pointing a wand at Brian.

"Okay, we got a major scene change now. Brian's about to drive off, he feels very happy for some reason, not a care in the world. The guy who was pointing the stick at him is outside the window of the car, pointing the stick again. There's a flash of white light, and now Brian is driving home, feeling confused.

"That's it. From there on it looks like he has gone home and gone to bed. Everything looks normal until his dreams start. I can understand why the poor fellow has been having nightmares. It's a miracle he has lasted this long without breaking."

"Okay, Auror. That's enough."

The Auror broke his connection to the patient and stood back. The mind arts where a specialised branch that took a lot of effort, and he was one of the few people in the world qualified to do what he had just done.

"Minister Shacklebolt, sir, I hope you don't mind me asking, but what's going on? I thought Mr Moody was murdered by you-know-who while escorting Harry Potter from his Muggle family's house?"

"Bill Weasley saw Mad-Eye hit in the face with the killing curse, and watched him fall off his broom from a great height, but it looks like Mad-Eye's eye took the hit, and saved his life, and the old bugger was too tough for a simple fall to do him in."

"I see, so he fought off the Death Eaters when they arrived to make sure he was dead, but who came and finished him off after that? And what happened to Brian afterwards?"

"I know for a fact Mad-eye had some Polyjuice with him. I am guessing you saw a Death Eaters forced to drink it once it had been seeded with some of Moody's hair. Moody then executed him and left the body somewhere away from the fight, to hide the traces maybe. Did you know that if you die while Polyjuiced you stay in that form forever?"

"No sir," answered Auror.

"Neither did I, until a few years ago. So after setting up a body to look like him, Mad-eye took some Polyjuice with somebody else's hair in it, possibly one of the Death Eaters, but more likely he had something already on him-"

"Constant vigilance, eh?"

"More preparation than vigilance, but when it comes to Mad-eye, it's the same thing. So anyway, he disguises himself, puts his clothes and things on the corpse, and then uses Brian to drive him away, probably under the Imperius Curse."

"He would use unforgivables like that?" asked the shocked Auror.

Mad-eye's hatred of dark wizard and witches was legendary in the Auror corps even now, years after his supposed death.

"If the circumstances warranted it, I believe so, and you saw the proof for yourself in Brian's memories; he used the killing curse on the Polyjuiced Death Eater, probably to make sure it looked as close as possible to the real thing for when somebody eventually did find his body.

"After escaping the scene in a virtually undetectable manner, he has tried to Obliviate this unfortunate Muggle, but something has gone wrong. Maybe he was too hurt by the backlash of the curse that was blocked by his eye, or maybe the fall did him more damage than the Polyjuice could cover. Whatever the reason, the Obliviate didn't work properly, and we are now left with the only proof that Alastor Moody did not die when Voldemort attacked him."

"But sir, if that is true, why didn't he return to the fold? Why didn't he at least let you know that he was still alive? And where was he for the whole year that the war was going on?"

"Alastor knew the Order had been betrayed that night, by somebody within it. I can't answer the rest, although I have some leads, but I think he decided not to trust anybody ever again, and that's why he hasn't come in even now – despite it all being over.

The Minister for Magic turned and headed for the door. He had a lot of work to do.

"Extract the memories from our Muggle guest here and the Obliviate him again," he ordered the Auror. "Make sure to do a thorough job this time, but leave him the knowledge his nightmares have been cured and will not be coming back. He is a brave man who tried to help a downed wizard, so we must make sure to make this right."

"Yes, sir. I can also implant a false memory of completing your session for you, sir."

"Good work, Auror Smith. Clean up these offices and remove all traces of us being here too. I'll be making a personal notation in your permanent file for this, and I am sure you realise just how high security this information is, and why I am handling it personally?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!"

The Minister walked away from the room, a look of concern on his face.

"Where are you Mad-eye, and what in the world have you been doing?"

**Finite?**


	3. Hat Full of Memories

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all related materials are the property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Brothers. I am in no way affiliated with JKR, Bloomsbury or Warner Brothers, and use their materials without their permission or knowledge.

**Hat full of Memories.**

_The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. Fawkes was circling its head, piping his eerie song, jabbing here and there at its scaly nose as the blood poured from its ruined eyes._

_"Help me, help me," Harry muttered wildly, "someone – anyone." _

_The snake's tail whipped across the floor again. Harry ducked. Something soft hit his face._

_The basilisk had swept the Sorting Hat into Harry's arms. Harry seized it. It was all he had left, his only chance - he rammed it onto his head and threw himself flat onto the floor as the basilisk's tail swung over him again._

_Help me - help me - Harry thought, his eyes screwed tight under the hat. Please help me._

"Mother of Merlin, boy," came the hat's voice echoing through Harry's mind. "What in blazes have you gotten yourself into now? Don't answer I can see for myself. Hold on lad, this is going to hurt-"

Before Harry could even think to ask what it was that was going to hurt, an overwhelming pain flooded his mind, causing him to see stars.

Knowledge: It poured into Harry like a bursting dam flooding a spillway.

The memories of almost a thousand years of children, most of whom knew some magic by the time they arrived for the sorting. Each and every one of the spells, magical facts, and other information the hat accumulated during its centuries of servitude, flowed into Harry's mind, integrating to become practically indistinguishable from his own thoughts and memories.

Individually, few of the children knew much of value. Collectively, they knew more than whole libraries could hold.

Yet that was only the tip of the iceberg.

Seventy-five headmasters and a dozen other various professors donned the hat after their sorting. Some late in life, when their time had run its course, some earlier, usually at the start of their tenure. The hat remembered and recalled every spell and magical theory known to that august and highly select body of witches and wizards.

Now Harry knew it too.

Deeper and deeper into the hat's past went the knowledge, right to the beginning. There, at the source of the river that was streaming into Harry's brain, was a significant piece of the four individuals considered by historians to be the most powerful magicians since Merlin left Atlantis: The Hogwarts founders.

More than just their repertoire of spells entered Harry. He gained intimate knowledge of their personalities, and some of their abilities.

"_KILL THE BOY! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. SNIFF - SMELL HIM," screamed Riddle_

Thoughts spinning, Harry stood, removing the hat from his head so that he could once again see. He looked at Riddle and simply knew. He knew what it was, how it was probably created, and what it was meant to do. He could see everything, as if somebody had sat down and carefully explained every aspect of the situation to him.

_The basilisk's head was falling, its body coiling around, hitting pillars as it twisted to face him. He could see the vast, bloody eye sockets, see the mouth stretching wide, wide enough to swallow him whole, lined with fangs long as his arm, glittering, venomous -_

"In the name of Salazar Slytherin, I command you to obey only me!" shouted Harry, his voice a rasping hiss. "Stop!"

The sibilant echoes of his command bounced oddly though the Chamber, far louder and authoritative than any eleven-year-old voice should be.

Incredibly, the snake stopped, its head frozen in place as if stuck.

"I COMMAND YOU TO KILL HIM," yelled Riddle.

The snake didn't move, but Harry did. He raised his hand and his wand flew into it. For a moment it felt funny, wrong, and he moved his fingers as if trying to get a better grip. Then suddenly it just fit, as if it was now a part of his hand and not something he had to hold. An enormous gout of multicoloured sparks flew from the end of the wand, and it practically hummed with what Harry could only say felt like enthusiasm.

With barely a thought and a small flick of his wand, he summoned the diary of Tom Riddle. It flew from where it lay on the floor into his open hand, moving so fast it was hard to track. Tom saw the book move out of the corner of his eye and reacted instantly.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_ he cried, bringing Ginny's wand down to point at Harry.

A sickly green light sped from the tip of the wand.

Swallowing a momentary flash of panic and a burst of fear, Harry bravely held his spot, only moving to hold up the newly acquired book, putting it squarely between him and the terrifying curse speeding toward him.

The spell impacted the cover with a muffle 'thumwp', pushing Harry back a step with the force of the blow.

There was a momentary pause, and then a wave of black ink exploded from it spraying foully over Harry, the snake, and a good portion of the room. It screamed as it died; a horrifying lingering cry of anger and torment that set Harry's teeth on edge.

When Harry shakily lowered the burnt and blistered diary, the shade of Tom Riddle was gone. He knew why.

A faint moan came from the end of the Chamber. Ginny was stirring. Harry hurried toward her, as she sat up. Her fearful eyes travelled from the huge form of the blind basilisk, over Harry, then to the diary in his hand. She drew a great, shuddering gasp and tears began to pour down her face.

Harry knelt down and wrapped his arms around her, leaned her head onto his shoulder, and patted her back gently as she sobbed and tried to explain herself.

"It's all right, Ginny," he soothed, quietly, not sure what else he should do. "Tom is gone, and the diary is destroyed. You are not going to be expelled. It's all right."

Fawkes landed on the ground next to them and began to sing a quiet song filled with hope and forgiveness. It tingled in their ears and washed away their bad feelings. Eventually they managed to calm the near hysterical girl down, only to have her almost panic again, when she realised the giant basilisk was not dead.

"Ginny," said Harry. "The snake is fine. I can command him, but I don't want to kill him, or leave him here like this. So I am going to heal his eyes and send him back to sleep, okay?"

The young girl should have been speechless with terror, but Harry knew he was projecting an aura of trust that she would not be able to resist.

"Look at the ground and don't look up until I tell you to, okay? You are going to hear me talking to it, and it's going to sound pretty scary, but I am just going to tell it to go back to sleep, nothing to be frighted of. Then we are going to go outside and back to where Ron is waiting."

"Ron is here?" she asked hopefully.

"He came with me but got stuck behind a cave in," Harry explained. "Now can you do what I asked, or would you prefer to go back to Ron now and wait for me there?"

Harry thought Ginny looked horrified at the thought of being alone for even a second, as he expected her to.

"I'll stay," she answered.

"Okay, just don't look up for a few minutes and then we will go, right?"

She nodded her acceptance and looked down.

Harry moved to stand before the snake.

"Lower you head so that I may heal your eyes," he hissed at the snake.

Obediently, the massive serpent brought its head down to rest on the floor. Harry still had to stand on his toes to reach one of the ruined eyes with his wand.

"_Vigoratusa Quod Restito Occulus_" he cast.

There was no effort in recalling which spell to use. He could not have said where the memory came from, but he could reel off a hundred different facts about it as easily as he could tell you his own name. He couldn't say why he chose that particular spell either, amongst the half dozen he knew could do the job, but it seemed to be good enough for what he needed.

The great, bulbous yellow eye swelled back into existence, as if it had never been damaged, and slowly blinked at Harry.

Harry knew the snake wouldn't petrify him without command, though once again, he could not have told you exactly how he knew. It was simply a fact that he knew without effort, like what one plus one equalled.

Healing the other eye, Harry commanded the snake to return to its magical slumber, and then walked back to where Ginny sat trembling.

"I could understand you," she said. "When you spoke to the snake, I could understand what you said."

Nodding in acceptance, as if he had expected that, Harry awkwardly hugged her again. When she felt she was ready, he let her go and stood to leave.

The sorting hat lay unmoving on the floor where he had dropped it. Sadly Harry picked it up.

"Is that the sorting hat?" asked Ginny. "What's wrong with it?"

Harry turned the worn hat over in his hands gently.

"It saved us," he said. "It gave everything it knew to me, so that I wouldn't die, but now it has nothing left; it's dead."

Ginny began to sob again and Harry had to hurriedly put the hat in his pocket out of sight and calm her down. Fawkes again helped, crooning a quiet melody that put smiles on their faces despite the fear and other emotions they felt.

Eventually he collected the remains of the diary led the way from the chamber back to where Ron waited. Fawkes joined them, flying ahead short distances before perching on any outcrop to wait.

Ron managed to clear a small hole in the rubble just large enough to crawl though, but Harry didn't feel like crawling.

"_Arcus_," he intoned, waving his wand in a complex pattern.

The rocks and rubble around Ron's small opening bent and twisted, pulling and moving away like the bricks leading into Diagon alley to reveal an elaborate archway.

"Blimey!" said Ron. "How did you do that?"

"Later," mumbled Harry, feeling his face go a bit red with embarrassment.

Ginny rushed into Ron's arms and began sobbing again, while Harry moved to where Gilderoy Lockhart sat staring at a rock and humming placidly to himself.

"Hello," said Gilderoy happily.

"His memory is gone," explained Ron.

Harry nodded. He could try to fix the man; spells and incantations rose in his mind immediately at the thought, but for the life of him, he just didn't want to.

"Should leave the git down here," he said.

Ron and Ginny laughed, Fawkes thrilled disapprovingly.

"How are we going to get out?" asked Ron when they reached the pipe that originally brought them down.

"Got it covered," answered Harry, directing them all to stand near the mouth of the pipe.

"Up," he commanded.

Immediately pipe sucked them in, like a giant vacuum cleaner.

One by one, all four flew upwards through the pipe, not even touching the sides as they ascended, but staying perfectly in the middle for the whole ride, until their unceremoniously ejection onto the floor of the girl's bathroom.

Ron whooped as he flew along, but Harry was deep in thought.

_Very _deep in thought.

#

_The idea behind this was to write a story where Harry suddenly has a vast array of knowledge, but not the wisdom it requires for proper use._

_He does things like heal Neville's parents, only to have Neville miserable and his grandmother has a falling out with them about the way he is being raised._

_People seek him out, asking him to do increasingly demanding things for them. He doesn't know how to say no, especially when it comes to things like healing people in the long term spell ward of St Mungos, and gets a bit run into the ground with the responsibility others are thrusting onto him._

_Almost every time he uses his newly acquired knowledge, the consequences are not what he wanted, and things do not go well (in his opinion)._

_Eventually he accepts that the power he has is no good and restores the sorting hat back to 'life', giving it back all of the knowledge it gifted him to save his life._

_The last scene was going to be Harry secretly performing some very advanced magic, showing he did not actually give up all of the knowledge he gained from the hat._


	4. Peculiar Pain

_Never really had much of a plan for this bunny, but it was undoubtably going to be a dark!Harry story. It just stops without any sort of an ending really, sorry. _

**Peculiar Pain**

The first time Harry felt Voldemort's anger through the cursed scar during the Department of Mysteries debacle, it hurt and terrified him.

It next time was worse, but each time after that, he grew a little more used to it.

After a time, he began to enjoy it.

That brain searing agony meant that the Dark Lord was angry, and that usually meant something had gone wrong for the snake-faced bastard. Very quickly, Harry began to look forward to the burning fire erupting in his forehead, for it meant Voldemort was suffering.

It was the front page exposure, the picture of the Dark Lord standing in the Ministry of Magic on the night Bellatrix killed Sirius, that really started it. The picture and following commentary set Voldemort off and left Harry writhing on the floor of his dorm in agony. The Dark Lord's anger and frustration bled into Harry's scar in a torrent and tore into his mind painfully.

Knowing what it was, Harry revelled in it

Filled with revenge fuelled thoughts over the loss of his godfather, Harry didn't tell anybody about the pain, but began thinking of other ways he could make the creature responsible for so much loss angry.

#

"Dobby."

"Yes, Master Harry, Sir?"

"Can you go anywhere? Anywhere in the world?"

"Yes, Master Harry. Dobby be going anywhere Great Harry Potter wishes."

"Brilliant. I need you to get something for me, but it will be very dangerous, but I think you'll enjoy it too."

"Dobby be doing anything for the great Harry Potter sir!"

"You once warned your old master not to harm me, but he ignored you. I think it's time you followed through on your warning, my friend."

Dobby's toothy grin should have made Harry slightly uncomfortable, but it didn't; it reassured him.

#

Harry had just descended the last marble step into the Entrance Hall when Malloy, Crabbe and Goyle emerged

"Sorry to hear about your Dad, Draco," said Harry.

"The Dementors have left Azkaban," said Malfoy quietly. "Dad and the others'll be out in no time…"

"Oh, haven't you heard yet?"

"Heard?" asked Malfoy. "Heard what?"

"About your dad and the rest of his mates? Gee, Draco, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems Voldemort was just a bit annoyed at your dad's failure-"

"Potter!"

The voice rang across the Entrance Hall. Snape had emerged from the staircase leading down to his office and at the sight of him Harry felt a great rush of hatred beyond anything he felt towards Malloy… whatever Dumbledore said, he would never forgive Snape… never…

"What are you doing, Potter?" said Snape, as coldly as ever, striding over to the four of them.

"I was just offering my condolences to Draco, Professor," said Harry as innocently as possible, "but it seems nobody has told him yet. That's a bit cruel, isn't it?"

"Told me what?" yelled Draco, his hand moving towards his wand. "What's happened to my father? What's he talking about?"

"Potter, not another word. Leave here at once," snarled Snape.

Harry nodded and walked away, smiling broadly.

Malfoy's yelling cry followed him all the way outside.

It didn't feel as good as when Voldemort found out somebody had murdered some of his followers and he was being blamed for it, but it was still somewhat satisfying.

#

Returning to Privet Drive, Harry's composure unsettled Vernon, who suddenly found himself no longer in a position of power over the boy. The warning form the freaks at the platform was one thing, but the boy himself made Vernon feel very uncomfortable about his previous treatment.

There was something very wrong inside of him. You could tell just by looking into those vibrant Green eyes.

It was because Harry was getting frustrated, and that was quickly turning into anger towards the only people near him; the Dursleys.

Facing being locked away at his Muggle relatives house and almost completely cut off from the Magical world again did nothing to ease the _hunger_ he felt. He wanted Voldemort to _bleed_, to feel loss like he had never felt before.

Luckily Harry thought of a few ways to get what he wanted, what he longed for; the pain.

Voldemort's pain.

Lucky, for the Dursleys that is.

#

_Dear Susan,_

_I am very sorry to hear about your aunt. At my trial last year, she was one of the few who tried to hear the truth, and that impressed me a great deal._

_Although we have barely ever talked, I want you to know I share your loss, and I want to offer you something that while it will never bring your Aunty back, might give you some satisfaction._

_I happen to know there is a spy in Voldemort's ranks, a spy who probably could have warned the Aurors about the attack on your home, but didn't..._

The pain of Voldemort's anger kept Harry awake all night, but knowing he had taken yet another of the Dark Lord's resources away from him granted him peace.

#

Rita Skeeter opened the sealed envelope warily, fully aware that anything sent from Harry Potter was unlikely to have her best interests at heart.

A few lines into the letter, she forgot everything else and grabbed her quill so forcefully that it broke before she could pen a single line.

Here it was, the most exciting story she could imagine, and with facts and evidence she could actually verify!

The Dark Lord was nothing more than a filthy half blood, and it was her job to make sure the world knew it. This was even more important than the exposure of Dumbledore she had been working on.

Only after the second reprint of the special edition came out did she stop to wonder why Potter sent her the story of the century, with nothing more than a request she not identify him as the source.

She never did figure it out, but Harry felt the results of her articles for many days and nights, and it brought tears to his eyes.

Not all of them were from the pain.

#

_"Give him an order," said Dumbledore. "If he has passed into your ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress."_

_Kreacher's voice had risen to a scream. Harry could think of nothing to say, except, "Kreacher, shut up!"_

_It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward onto the carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered) and beat the floor with his hands and feet, giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum._

_"Well, that simplifies matters," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "It means that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher."_

Harry's mind went into overdrive.

With a small portion of his attention, he followed Dumbledore's advice and ordered the beast to Hogwarts, but the majority of his thoughts were on how to use the very expendable resource he had just inherited.

A resource who apparently had access to Malfoy Manner.

And to Bellatrix Lestrange.

Later that night, in a dark corner of the garden at the Burrow, Harry again called his elf.

"Kreacher," he whispered.

A loud crack echoed through the empty night, and the disgusting servant appeared.

"Shut up and don't say a single word unless it is to answer a question I ask you," he commanded.

Then in a quiet voice, he gave Kreacher his orders, and made the elf repeat them back verbatim. It was a struggle, but he was determined, and the elf was forced to comply.

#

"That's disgusting!" said Hermione, pushing the paper away from her.

Bellatrix's decapitated head gaped from the picture taking up most of the front page, the flies buzzing around the macabre spectacle doing nothing to enhance the image.

"Better than she deserves," said Ron.

Harry said nothing, but looked, eyes unfocussed, at the gory picture.

For a second his mind flicked back to the night before, when he held that very woman under the draught of living death, and he felt a small pang of regret. He had wondered if there was a way to let her know what was about to happen, some way he could have made her experience everything she had ever done to others, but she was just too dangerous, and he not nearly skilled enough to do it.

In the end, he opted for the safer way, and let her die without knowing it. Killed by a rusty axe out of Arthur's shed; a pauper's Muggle tool.

After all, it was not her he really wanted to upset.

A sudden stabbing pain made him grasp involuntarily.

"Harry?" asked Hermione immediately.

"What's up mate?" added Ron, when Harry didn't immediately respond.

"I think Voldemort just got the paper," said Harry, rubbing his forehead. "He is a bit angry."

"Can't be too upset," said Ron, "or you'd be rolling on the floor, right?"

"Ron!" admonished Hermione.

"Yeah," said Harry, not having to force a smile as the excruciating pain blazed through him like a wave of ecstasy. "Either that or I am getting used to it."

"Wonder what happened to her body?" asked Ron.

"Ron!" yelled Hermione again.

"What? I'm just saying. Whoever knocked her off must have done something with the rest of her."

"That is disgusting. How can you think of such things..."

Harry tuned out their arguing and concentrated on the wonderful agony of his scar. Obviously Bella was bit more important than he had thought, if the intensity of Voldemort's anger was anything to go by.

It might even change his plans for the rest of her body, which was currently hidden in the cold box of Grimmauld place.

#

"Why yes, Professor Slughorn. I'd love to have tea with you. I am fascinated to hear more about your famous former students and how you helped them along.

"Especially how you help them along actually. Can you tell me more about that Goblin liason officer? I hardly know anything about goblins."

#

The first few weeks at Hogwarts passed without anything particular of note happening.

"Did you read about Malfoy?" asked Ron, shovelling another mouthful of breakfast into his mouth while holding the daily paper in his free hand. "Blimey, Harry, you look like you haven't slept a wink in days. What are you smiling at?"

"Nothing, Ron. Just happy to be here but didn't sleep very well. Anyway, what's that about Malfoy?"

"Apparently all his money has disappeared. Gringotts are denying a break in, but Malfoy's mum caused a big scene when she found her vault was empty. Nearly got arrested for disturbing the peace when she started cursing Goblins. Skeeter is saying You-know-who took it."

"Guess Draco is having a bit of a bad year then?" said Harry, taking a seat at the table and helping himself to some of the pile of food.

Ron grinned.

"Yeah," he said. "Between finding out You-know-who isn't a Pureblood, his dad getting knocked off by the sod, and all his money going missing, I think Draco might not be so mouthy about his allegiance eh?"

"Don't bet on it," said Hermione, joining them at the table. "Morning Harry. It might just push him further into the fold, since he has nowhere else to turn now."

"Surely even he can't be that stupid- oh, wait. You could be right," said Ron grinning.

"At any rate,' said Hermione. "I don't understand why Voldemort would need to take all of that money from Gringotts. All he has done is made himself more unpopular with the other purebloods, and now with Gringotts."

"If it wasn't him, then who was it?" asked Ron.

"Dunno," said Harry, peering into his plate. "But I don't think snake-face will be very happy about it if it wasn't him."

He grinned in a way Ron could not recall seeing before. It was not a nice grin.

"No, not happy at all."

#

Several days later the rumour mill was again active with something new and juicy to discuss.

"I hear Snape is not allowed to leave the castle," said Dean Thomas confidentially as the Head of Slytherin house walked passed on his way to the head table.

He looked decidedly worse for wear, as if he had not slept in a very long time.

"I heard the only reason he is not in Azkaban is because Dumbledore vouched for him again, and You-know-who has put a bounty on his head. I bet all the upper year Slytherins are looking to cash in," countered Seamus.

"Wouldn't want to be Snape right now," said Ron.

"Ever," said Harry.

They laughed, but Harry only half heartedly. The whole time he couldn't take his eyes off the man he had hoped to never see again.

Killing Snape would be satisfying, but it might make Voldemort happy, and that was not an emotion Harry wanted coursing through his link.

So Snape would get to live another day, but one day, his time would be up.

After all, Harry was going to need something else to do after he had destroyed the Dark Lord.

#

Harry carefully turned the pages of the worn potions book and made another note on the Muggle pad in front of him.

Whoever this 'Half Blood Prince' was, he certainly did have a nasty streak, like Hermione said.

Luckily, his book had fallen into Harry's hands, just the right person to make use of the many spells and potion variations scribbled messily into the margins.

_For Enemies_ he wrote neatly, and then proceeded to copy out the incantation and wand movements precisely. It took a bit of work to understand the scrawls, but it was usually worth it.

Tonight he would return to the Chamber of secrets and see if any of the Basilisk venom remained, but even if it didn't, there were more than enough deadly concoctions in the standard material to give him a wide choice.

The Prince's variations were just the icing on the cake.

Dobby was happy learning how to use a blowpipe, but Harry needed to find a more discreet delivery mechanism. He wanted something that would have no chance of been seen, and no chance of defending against when he poisoned his target with one of the aforementioned concoctions.

Speaking of variations, he carefully noted all of the different versions the Prince had gone through to get to the end result. Later, he would try them out in the room of requirement and see what they all did. Sometimes he found ones that worked differently, but were just as useful, if not more so, and there was something to be said for having a few spells in his repertoire that were not on the standard menu.

The same went for some of Neville's potion disasters of previous years. Volatile and explosive potions made from common, cheap materials were just begging to be used in previously unthought-of ways. With his faithless but enslaved house-elf as a delivery mechanism, and a second less expendable by infinitely friendlier one as a backup, opportunities were bound to make themselves known.

Harry knew he had a very long and difficult year ahead of him, but he was determined to make every effort to get some _pleasure_ out of it.

_Finite_


	5. Pun One

**Pun #1**

"Hermione, I'm a bit worried about Harry."

"What? Why, Ron?"

"His bag fell over the other day and everything fell out. I tried to help him pick them up and he went mental, kept telling me to keep my hands off his stuff and things."

"Well he does get a bit cranky every now and then-"

"Yeah but this was different. Anyway, he missed something and I picked it up. Here."

"Ron, this is a pamphlet about a day spar and health gym. You know he has always been a bit sensitive about how skinny he is. Maybe he just didn't want you to know."

"Nah, look in the back."

"It's a voucher for 'your tenth solarium treatment free', so what?"

"Look, three of the nine are punched!"

"I'm still not seeing it, Ron."

"Well it means he has already snuck out and gone three times!"

"And that means...?"

"Well I think he is trying to go dark!"

**Finite**

_Yes, this could have been a lot longer and more painful, but it really doesn't deserve that amount of effort!_


	6. DumbArse Harry

_Having written "Almost a Squib" in response to reading one too many super!harry stories, I was once very tempted to write a dumbass!harry story in response yet another brilliant!harrry story._

_"_Harry, you're a wizard!"

"A what?"

"A wizard!"

"Who?"

"You are."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"I'm Harry Wizard, not Harry Potter?"

Hagrid suddenly had the feeling that famous scar went a lot deeper than just the baffled looking boy's skin.

**_Omake by SomeguyFawkes_**

"Harry Potter!"

Whispers broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall. "Potter, did she say?"

"The Harry Potter?"

But Harry was standing with his finger in his nose, gawping in wonder at the floating candles. All eyes were upon him as he withdrew the finger and licked it.

McGonagall clapped her hands sharply, gaining Harry's attention. "Mister Potter! Sit on the stool!" which she pointed to.

As the hat dropped over his eyes, Harry said, "Where'd she go?" and then started humming softly.

People all about the hall were craning to get a good look at him as he sat there. For what seemed like many minutes nothing happened. Finally, the hat spoke, "Very funny professor. It's been a few hundred years since someone placed a puppy under me. Shall I sort this one into Gryffindor too?"


	7. Cult of the Shorts

_Wrote this in response to a challenge somewhere along the line. Don't recall if anybody else responded..._

**Cult of the Shorts**

The Golden Egg fell from Harry's arms, forgotten in the rush of confused thoughts that followed opening the new and unfamiliar door Harry noticed in the seventh floor corridor.

He found the door while trying to escape from Filch and Snape after leaving the prefect's bathroom, where he had discovered the clue contained in the egg. Harry was certain there had never been a door here before, but, in his rush to escape the caretaker and hated potion's professor, wondering where the door came from took second place to ducking inside and out of sight.

Now he was paying for his haste.

Below him, in an amphitheatre reminiscent of the great colosseum of Rome, a strange and disturbing ritual appeared to be taking place.

Dozens of naked girls moved in a complicated dance, pivoting and encircling a life sized, golden statue standing proudly on a raised platform. Somewhere, drums pounded a hypnotic rhythm for the dancers to follow, their cavorting and twirling perfectly in time to the chest-thumping beat.

For a brief second, Harry managed to tear his eyes from the wonderful parade of naked female bits, and noticed the statue that was apparently the centre of attention.

It was of him. The statue was a life-sized, somewhat stylised, Harry Potter, and it was wearing a pair of his boxer shorts; a pair that had mysteriously gone missing a few weeks previously.

"Hail the mighty shorts of Harry," called a voice.

"Hail the shorts!" replied the crowd, not pausing for a moment in their endless movement.

Harry watched, entranced by the jiggling and bouncing. So hypnotised by the seeming acres of gorgeous pick flesh that he failed to notice the girls, one by one, stopping dancing to turn and face him.

"Look – it's him!" shouted a red haired girl.

"Hail Harry of the shorts!" called another girl.

"Hail the shorts!" responded the crowd.

"Wha- what's going on?" spluttered Harry.

"We love you, Harry," called a familiar voice.

Shocked at recognising the voice, Harry managed to raise his vision high enough to confirm what he already knew.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry."

"What are you doing?" he asked, managing to keep his voice from croaking.

"It's a bit complicated," answered his best friend, whose previously unnoticed, abundant assets where doing their damned best to distract him.

"Zere is nothing complicated about zit," said a stunning blonde girl in a heavy French accent.

"Fleur? But, but, you hate me, don't you?"

"Zat was before we learned you are no a leetle boy, eh?" answered the Beaubaxton beauty.

"You what?"

"We know what you are hiding under those short, Harry," said a girl Harry recognised from his first year Herbology class, Susan Bones. "Those magnificent, loose shorts. Hail the shorts!"

"Hail the shorts!" called the crowd, in an obviously spontaneous and reflexive reply.

"You what? How could you – when did you-?"

"Sorry, Harry," said a shorter girl, stepping out from the crowd. "I discovered your secret when you stayed at the Burrow."

"Ginny?" asked Harry, finally connecting the petite, redheaded beauty with his other best friend's younger sister. "You did what?"

"And then she shared it with me," added Hermione. "And it sort of got away from us once we got back to school."

"Enough of deese 'chit-chat'," snapped another Beaubaxton girl. "Show us ze shorts!"

"Show the shorts!" cried the crowd. "Show the shorts!"

"What? I'm not going to drop –"

"Sod that," called a blonde-haired woman. "I want to see what they're hiding from us!"

"No way!" yelled Harry.

"Get him," cried Pansy Parkinson, rushing towards the stairs leading to where Harry stood.

All thoughts of avoiding Snape and Filch abandoned, Harry turned and ran, slamming the door behind him as he fled, yelling his panic loudly.

"And that, gentlemen, is what you call a prank," said a sandy haired man, as he stepped out of a hidden alcove. "Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Padfoot?"

"Indeed, Mr Moony," answered a dark haired man, emerging from the same alcove. "And a very imaginative and well constructed request to the Room of Requirement, if I do say so myself."

"Take note, young apprentices," said Sirius. "Your request to the room must be precise, but open ended. Were you to simply have asked for a room filled with naked women to embarrass Harry, the scene may not have played out as well."

"Yes master!" said the two red-haired twins following closely behind. Both scribbled furiously in notepads as they walked.

"I love this school," whispered Fred to his brother as they plodded along behind their mentors.

"I am never going to leave," agreed George nodding furiously.

In the distance, they could still hear Harry screaming.

**Finite.**


	8. Animagus

_All right, this really didn't work out, but what the hell. Maybe somebody will like it. _

**Animagus**

Behind a little house in an ordinary suburb, probably quite close to where you live, there was a garden. It was not a very big garden, nor was it very small, but to the children playing there it was as big as the whole world, and as small as a tiny dungeon cell.

Mountains and valleys, rivers and castles filled the spaces between the big tree and the hedge. Monsters of infinite beauty and horrendous evil lurked under every bush and inside every dark corner. What they lacked in terrain, the children filled in with imagination.

Past the gently sloping lawn and behind the shed where the pushbikes where kept, there was a patch of ground that was often damp and muddy. Mother had told them many times, in a very loud voice, not to play in there, and father had even put up a fence to try to keep them out, but the temptation of soft soggy dirt was often too much to resist. When the games involving throw balls or chasing butterflies had grown old, and all the toys had been used for every imaginable purpose, then the children would find themselves drawn back to the same spot just outside the fence where they would sit in the shade poking sticks through the wire into the mud.

"I wish I could turn into a frog!" said Timmy. "Then I could jump through the wire and play in there."

"Don't be silly," said his older sister sternly.

She often had to tell Timmy off for being silly.

"An owl will probably swoop down and carry you away for breakfast."

"Would not!" he denied. "I'd dig down deep into the mud and it would never find me. Besides, I bet Owls don't eat frogs; not for breakfast anyway."

Such a silly statement could not go without comment, so there followed a lengthy and loud debate about the various morning meal habits of all sorts of creatures.

Eventually, sick of hearing endless repetitions of "Stupid baby" and "Silly witch," a woman's voice called out from inside the house and the argument stopped.

"You can't change into a frog anyway," said Suzy, with all the authority a seven-year old can muster.

"Why not? People turn into frogs all the time in stories," replied Timmy, who abandoned his efforts to drag mud past the fence using a stiff leaf from one of the overhead trees, and was now just pulling the leaves off a branch.

"That's just stories. They are not all true you know."

"But SOME are, aren't they?"

Suzy stopped pulling up bits of grass and thought about it for a while.

"I suppose some stories have to be true, otherwise why would people keep telling them?" she said. "But people in stories are always doing silly things and that can't be true."

"Like what?" asked Timmy. He liked it when Suzy read or told him stories, and he hoped she could be guided into telling him one now. He did not mind if he had heard it a thousand times before, although the telling was rarely ever the same.

"Well remember that story about the boy who sells his cow for a magic bean that grows really big?"

Timmy frowned in concentration tying to remember. He was smart for a boy of five, but sometimes all the stories got mixed up in his head, possibly because they often got mixed up in Suzy's telling.

"Jack and the beanie stalk?"

"That's right," said Suzye, proud of his successful recall. "Well he was very silly for selling a cow for a few beans wasn't he?"

"But they were magic!"

"So? Sometimes magic is bad too, like that nasty apple that puts people to sleep. Imagine if he had grown beans and they put everyone to sleep!"

This didn't sound right to Timmy, but he couldn't fault his older sister's logic.

"Well if I could turn into a frog, I wouldn't need a cow because I could eat flies and bugs and live in the mud!"

He scooped up the little bit of mud he had managed to collect and squeezed it between his fingers making it squirm out of the gaps.

"Yuck!" said Suzy watching him, fascinated by the worms of mud curling out from between his fingers.

"I'd want to turn into an owl, not an ugly frog. Then I could fly up high in the sky and look down on you in your sticky mud patch and laugh!"

Suzy loved owls. She would often sit quietly in the windows of her room at dusk watching for them. Sometimes she even thought she saw them flying around during the day, but nobody believed her because everybody knew owls only came out at night.

Timmy liked the idea of flying, but he also like mud a lot too. It was soft and squishy and felt funny between your toes when you walked in it barefoot.

"You could pick me up in your claws and fly with me!" he said.

"And get mud all over my beautiful feathers? No way!"

"I'd wash myself clean if you promised to take me, honest!"

Suzy looked doubtful at this promise, as Timmy always seemed to find someway to get dirty. Mother was always making him go back rewash his hands before tea because he never ever washed properly. However, he looked so sincere, and she really would have liked to share flying with him because, despite all the fights, he was her best friend in the whole world.

Girls her age at school were not much fun and teased her about the stories she liked to tell, and the boys were even worse. None of them believed in magic, or witches flying on brooms, or giants with big clubs who stalked the countryside squashing people. All anybody ever wanted to talk about was people on TV, as if they were more real than giants were.

Suzy enjoyed learning things, but loved to come home and tell Timmy all the things she learned.

"Okay," said agreed, "but you will have to be clean and promise not to give me warts."

"I promise," said Timmy, enthusiastically holding his hand over his heart in their traditional promise making ritual.

"So how can I turn into a frog?" he asked, determined to figure out a way.

"Well, normally an evil witch or fairy godMother would curse you, but then you have to do something hard to get turned back into a boy again. Something like kiss a pretty girl"

"Yuck!" squealed Timmy.

"Some people can turn themselves into animals whenever they want."

"Like werewolves!" said Timmy excitedly. He often liked hearing scary stories, and nothing scared him as much as werewolves.

"No, they can only change when the moon is up."

Timmy looked hopefully into the bright blue sky, but there was nothing except a few white clouds high up.

"Maybe if I wish real hard I can make it happen!" he stood up eagerly.

"No, I think you need to use a magic wand. Fairy godMothers and witches always have a magic wand. Let's make magic wands," she said standing up with him.

For the next hour they ran, climbed, and dug through the flowerbeds collecting sticks of every type. Timmy pulled branches from trees and stripped the leaves off them while Suzy used a sharp stone to carve the bark off them making them smooth and straight. Timmy wanted to do some too, but his dirty hands kept turning the white of the wood black, so had to content himself with using another rock to saw the sticks into the 'right' length.

Before Mother called them in for lunch they had a fine collection of about a dozen sticks of various lengths that, in their expert opinion, could all be fantastic magic wands.

Timmy got told off (again) for having muddy hands, and Suzy had tried to convince Mother to let them take the sandwiches outside, but Mother knew they would get distracted and not eat properly, so insisted they stay inside until lunch was over.

After they had eaten their fill of delicious sandwiches, they rushed back to work.

"All magic wands have to have something special in them to make the magic work," Suzy told Timmy.

"Usually it's something from a magical creature, like a unicorn's hair. We have to search for magical creature bits to put in the wands!"

Once again, they scoured the garden, searching high and low collecting anything that might be from a magical creature.

Timmy found some odd-shaped rocks that might have been fossils, a dead bug whose shell shone with different colours in the sunlight, and a long hair hanging from a branch that he insisted was from a unicorn.

Suzy thought it looked a bit like Mother's hair, but was too polite to tell him.

She had found a very pretty butterfly wing that might have belonged to fairy, a small seashell that was obviously magical, since it was probably 'millions of years old', and a feather that she thought could have come from a Hippogriff or some other magical flying creature.

Then they sat down and used smaller sticks to bore holes into the end of their wands. Only one branch was big enough to accommodate the bug Timmy found, and it took a long time to make a hole large enough for it.

Once they forced their prizes into the wands, they plugged them up with mud then left them in the sun to dry while they went inside for a cool drink.

"How do we test them?" asked Timmy. "We should try to do some other spells first."

Suzy thought seriously about his suggestion for a second.

"But what if we use up all the magic before we get a chance to change?"

"Can you do that?" he asked a bit worried.

"I don't know, but it would be horrible if only your legs got changed and you had to walk around like that!"

They both burst into laughter at the imagined spectacle.

"Okay I'll go first," said Timmy picking up the longest of the wands.

He closed his eyes, held his breath and concentrated as hard as he had ever concentrated before, then raised the wand over his head for a second before bringing it down hard.

"OW!" he yelled, as the branch hit his head.

Suzy laughed so hard she had to sit down.

"It's not funny!" he yelled back, hurt in pride more than in reality.

"Yes it was! It was hilarious! You should have seen the look on your face!" Suzy rolled around on the ground laughing uncontrollably.

"I'll hit you on the head if you don't stop laughing," he threatened, picking up the wand.

Eventually Suzy stopped laughing and apologised.

"You need to say a spell dummy," she told him. "All magic is done with a spell, everybody knows that."

"Where are we going to get a spell from?" he asked, still rubbing his head.

"We can write one ourselves, it's dead easy. You just have to think up some funny sounding words and make them rhyme a bit."

Timmy looked doubtful, but was willing to try anything. This game promised to be more fun than anything they had ever done before. He raised his wand ready to try again but Suzy stopped him.

"It's my turn now," she said.

Timmy opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it and sat down to watch.

Suzy picked out what she thought was the finest looking wand, the one with the bit of feather inside, and held it over her head. She had learned a lot about owls and was determined to use one of the many words she knew meant owl.

"Magic and tricks, make me a Stix!" she said, closing her eyes and waving the wand about over her head.

Nothing happened. She opened her eyes and saw Timmy still sitting on the ground watching her expectantly. Not at all disheartened at her failure, she closed her eyes and tried again, this time concentrating and wishing even harder.

"Magic and tricks, make me a Stix!"

Still nothing happened, so she decided the wand must not be right and chose another one. Meanwhile, Timmy decided to try again, since he had thought up a really good rhyme to try. He picked up his large stick again, the one with the dead bug in it that was his favourite, and held it above his head while chanting.

"Dirt and Water,

Muck and Bog.

Turn me into,

A big fat Frog!"

He swished the stick down but stopped short of banging it onto himself this time.

As with his sister's effort, nothing happened, so he called up all of his will and put everything he had into it this time.

"Dirt and Water,

Muck and BOG.

Turn me into

A big fat FROG!"

Still nothing happened. Undeterred, he started chanting his spell over and over again and swung his stick around over his head. He even started turning himself in circles when he started to get tired of swinging the stick. "Dirt and Water..."

Suzy watched him for a few seconds and then picked up the wand with the fairy wing and thought about her own spell. "Magic and tricks, make me a Stix". She had to admit that it actually wasn't as good as Timmy's, but it was hard to rhyme with owl. Timmy could be very clever sometimes.

"Dirt and water..." he kept chanting louder and louder.

If he kept going, Mother would come outside and tell him off soon. Besides, all the noise he was making was not helping her think up a new rhyme.

"Dirt and water..."

"Can you please be quiet for a minute," she shouted over her shoulder, not looking at him. "I can't think up a new rhyme with you making all that noise!"

Timmy obligingly went quiet. After a minute or two more of trying to make words rhyme with Tyto or Otus, she gave in and decided to ask Timmy for help.

Timmy wasn't there.

His wand was lying on the ground where he had been standing, but he was nowhere to be seen.

At first, Suzy thought he had wandered off, and was probably angry with her for telling him to be quiet. She called out and told him she was sorry, but he didn't come back.

They had played hide and seek so often that they both knew all of each others best hiding places, but a quick search proved he was not in any of them. Then a scary thought crossed her mind.

What if it had worked and Timmy had turned into a frog?

What if an owl had flown down and snatched him up? Mother was going to be very angry. Suzy didn't know what to do. Should she run and tell straight away? Maybe he had not been snatched up and was hiding somewhere? Automatically she turned to the mud patch. Close to panic Suzy ran over to the wire and started calling.

"Timmy, Timmy, please come out," she called. She couldn't see any sign of him, but he might have dug down deep. She ran back to the wands and came back with one, then began to poke at the mud through the wire.

"Timmy, come out right now. Mum is going to call us for dinner soon and you don't want her to find out".

Again and again she stuck the stick into the mud searching randomly

"Please Timmy, we'll get into so much trouble. Please come out"

Suddenly the stick hit something harder than mud. She dug away the soggy ground until she could make out a shape of a large frog, which, upon discovering itself exposed, began to wriggle.

All of a sudden, it gave a mighty jump and landed next to the wire fence.

Suzy quickly stuck her hands through the fence and grabbed a hold of the wriggling creature.

"Timmy stop moving or I'll squash you!" she cried, half with relief at having found her brother at last, half with fear of losing him again.

The frog kept struggling to get away and she was having trouble dragging it back through the wire. Finally she got angry and snapped, "Stop it right now or I won't take you flying!" and gave it a sharp rap on the head with a finger. The frog went still and Suzy was able to pull it through the wire.

She felt bad about smacking it, and Mother always told her she was not allowed to smack Timmy, no matter how naughty he was (which was quite naughty sometimes), so she apologised to him and took him back to where the wands were lying.

"Now, change back quickly before Mother calls us!" she told him, putting him down next to his wand.

The frog didn't move.

"Come on Timmy," she pleaded. "It's far too late to go flying today, and I haven't managed to change into an owl at all."

The frog moved a bit, but didn't do anything.

"Please?" she begged.

The frog looked at her dolefully.

Then it stuck Suzy; the frog couldn't talk so it would not be able to say the spell to change back. It also couldn't possibly hold the wand in its tiny hands. She was going to have to make it change back, but she didn't know how!

Panic almost overwhelmed her again and tears threatened to pour from her eyes. Mother and father were going to be very angry with her if they had to live with a frog forever. She was the older one and should have been taking care of Timmy, it was all her fault. He best friend was going to be a frog forever.

Suddenly she could not control herself any more and started crying. Hot tears ran down her cheeks and she collapsed on the ground with her head on her arms and wept. Sobs racked her tiny frame as she lay on the grass.

Timmy reached out his hand and put it on her shoulder.

Startled, Suzy jumped and nearly screamed, then she saw Timmy sitting next to her looking perfectly normal. She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly, still crying. She did not even notice how muddy he was, or how much of it transferred onto her.

"I thought you were going to be a frog forever and we were going to get into big trouble!" she sobbed. "What happened? Were you really a frog? How did you change back?"

"I really was a frog!" he said excitedly. "It was great. One minute I was standing there, and the next I was hoping over the lawn towards the mud. I didn't know what I was doing or where I was going, but it felt great to dig down and get all nice and cool."

"Why didn't you come when I called?" Suzy wiped her eyes and asked a bit angrily.

"I couldn't hear you. I was so comfy that I dozed off to sleep. Next thing I know you were poking me. I sort of understood what you were saying, but it didn't matter. I just wanted to get back into the mud."

Suzy had calmed down a bit now and was starting to feel amazement at what he had done. He had turned into a frog! But that was impossible. She looked closely and suspiciously at him. Could he be lying?

"Are you telling me the truth? You really did turn into a frog?" she asked. It would be just like him to be playing a joke on her. He might have ran off and hid inside where she hadn't looked, or he might have a new hiding place.

If Timmy felt hurt at her distrust, he didn't show it.

"Yeah I really did! It was great. I want to do it again!" he jumped up, apparently about to try the spell again.

"No!" screamed Suzy. "We don't know how you changed back!"

Timmy stopped and though about this.

"You're right," he conceded. "I was sitting there watching you cry, and all of a sudden I was back to normal."

"You don't know how you turned back?" she asked, still not entirely convinced he was telling her the truth.

"I was trying to think of how to do it, but I wasn't really trying. I think you must have turned me back with your wishes."

"Timothy, Susan, time to come and get cleaned up. Your father will be home soon," called the voice of their Mother from the house.

"Don't tell mum anything!" Suzy whispered, as they made their way to the house.

"Why not?"

"Because if she finds out she will ban us from ever trying again. You do want to try again don't you?"

Timmy nodded vigorously. When it came to their parents, he often thought they should not be told too much of the things that happened. They always seemed to think of all the bad things that might go wrong, and they never believed hardly anything at all anyway.

So the two left the sticks where they lay, and ran up to the house where they received a stern talking to about the mud they had once again managed to get covered in.

#

Many other incredible things happened to them over the next few years, but none as exciting as the morning an owl came to visit Susan. The owl carried a letter that explained a lot, but gave their parents the biggest shock of their lives.


	9. Snape the Prick

_Just a bit of silliness_

_Set during OOTP - what if Snape was a bit more imaginative than canon..._

...there was a flash of light and a gash appeared on the side of James's face, spattering his robes with blood. James whirled about: a second flash of light later, Snape was hanging upside-down in the air, his robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs, and Snape's naked backside.

Many people in the small crowd cheered; Sirius, James and Wormtail roared with laughter, but the sound died away as Snape's body slowly rotated around, bringing his front to face the Marauders.

The book Remus had previously been engrossed in fell, from his hands to land with an audible thump on the grass.

At first Harry didn't understand what he was seeing. It looked like Snape had something hidden under robes, a long flesh coloured, leathery looking something about the size of a baby's arm. Then Harry realised; it was the horrid potions master's junk - his flesh wand, and it was god-damned huge.

"Holy shit!" said Harry, hearing his words echoed by the memory of his father and godfather.

Lily, whose furious expression twitched as though she was fighting not to smile, suddenly roared at James. "Let him down!" she yelled.

But James and his friends were standing perfectly still, open mouthed and stunned beyond words.

Then the thing, that ridiculously long thing, moved. It raised itself up, twisting and bending like a horrid snake. The end opened, blinking like an empty eye socket, and yet somehow it gave the impression it was staring straight at where Harry stood beside his father.

"Enjoying what you see, Potter?" it asked.

Harry screamed and threw himself backwards. He felt a disconcerting twist and landed on the floor of the dungeon where he had been having his occlumency lesson with professor Snape. Still screaming, he leapt to his feet and race to the door of the dungeon. He slammed into it three times before managing to get it open, and then crashed out, racing headlong down the stone hallway, careening off both sides of the long corridor, still screaming at the top of his lungs.

In the shadows, the potions master let a self satisfied smile grace his normally sour expression as the hysterical boy fled. Sometimes, it really paid to be a master of the mental arts.


	10. I am not Evil

I am not evil.

"What?" I hear you clamour. "How can I say that? How can I claim otherwise when the blood of thousands, nay of tens of thousands, stains the flesh of my hands?"

I am not evil, because there is no evil.

My ancestors, who lived in caves and killed with clubs of bone, were not evil. Their foes were, like the gods that dragged the warmth from the sky and layered the ground with frost, mere obstacles to overcome.

To generations of their descendants, that was truth. Only much later did two new concepts entered their thinking. Anything that caused hardship must be bad, and something that helps must be good. This insidious idea led to labelling all things beyond their understanding as good and bad, and then later again, good and evil.

I am kin to the forces of nature, so above your petty understanding that you must label me as evil, but you cannot properly define me in your limited terms; I defy interpretation. What you see as an act of unimaginable evil, I know as simply a rightful exercise of power - for what use is power if it is not used?

Try to raise your opinions to matters beyond the mundane. Try to expand yourself. Can you see that all nature lives and dies by the simple adage of 'might makes right'?

There is no evil in the natural world; there is only the strong that survive and the weak that are their victims. No lion questions his right to the stag. Why would he when, by his claws and teeth, he knows his birthright is to hunt and kill as the whim takes him?

Yet I am not a simple lion taking my prey; I use that only as a way to help you gain a small measure of understanding. I am the force of evolution pushing our race to new heights, my methods the crucible of the superior.

For too long we have been chained by social constraints. The biological impulses that cause all men to protect their own offspring first, related ones next, and groups ranging from tribes to the whole species, has been almost irreversibly corrupted.

Where rules were created to protect the weak from ruthless exploitation of the, strong and so prevent infighting from causing extermination, there are now laws that restrict our best from dominating the pack.

We submit ourselves to the lesser creatures, the ones that have been allowed to breed until they more resemble an illness than a race with the potential to produce a superior species: The Muggles are a plague.

Even their offspring that have, by nothing short of a miracle, been into our world, sully and defile our traditions with ideas and points of view only a naïve and ignorant Muggle could contrive.

I tell you my work is noble. I seek only to combat the rising tide of the lesser race that is digesting the greater. We must stand forth and take our place at the head of all life, but to do so, we must first win back the right.

The battle has begun, and it will test us all. Those of us who overcome these challenges will inherit the earth and become its guardians; a responsibility not to be taken lightly.

Only the best, only the ones who prove themselves superior through conquest, should be permitted that mantle – to shoulder that burden. Only they have proven themselves capable of holding that office.

How can you define such a worthy cause as evil? Do you dispute the claim that violence, channelled and controlled, has shaped all societies throughout our race's short duration on this planet?

Will you label all who fight for a worthy cause, using whatever weapons and methods available to them, as evil?

To do so condemns that which you protect – a product of countless wars and brutality.

Or do you believe the battle can be fought with words? Will turning the tide on the uncontrolled masses and their selfish, destructive ways only require a politely worded request?

Perhaps you consider them nothing more than sheep then, waiting for their noble shepherd to lead them to the green pasture?

I contend that you are just as evil. By allowing, nay encouraging, the less-than-superior to drive the evolution of our race, you are violating a cosmic rule of nature. Protect the weak if you must, yes, but allows the strong to lead and choose the path to be taken.

But who is strong? How do you decide who has the right?

There is only one arena, one test; war.

Nothing else will truly judge the competence and strength of opponents. Anything that does not result in the death or destruction of the loser is an invitation for all the unworthy to try repeatedly and, by a process of erosion, destroy the strong.

I tell you there is nothing evil in me, or in the methods I use; there is only the power to best you, and that is what you fear.

_Salazar Slytherin_


	11. In the shadown of Salazar

**In the Shadow of Salazar**

I walk in the shadow of Salazar.

For evermore I will be subjected to the fame of that man. His skill, his strength, and even his looks, will forever dominate my life.

When people see me, they think of him. When they talk of me, it is to compare my failures and weaknesses to his strengths. Rarely is a word spoken about me that it does not immediately follow with praise for that insufferable beast and his legend.

Yet I will not give up – I will surpass him. Whatever it takes, no matter the cost – I will surpass him.

I will defile his memory with tales of his misdeeds. I shall strive to ensure my own successes are measured against the likes of Merlin, not Slytherin, and I shall curse house and hearth of my former colleague until his name is held in distain by all but the vilest of men and wickedest of beasts.

If it takes a thousand years, I will overcome him. A single millennia will be but a few paltry grains of sand falling in the hour glass of my fame's duration; a blink in the endless vista of time where my name shall ring out as the greatest wizard of my time.

His house will fall by the hand of a Gryffindor – this I promise with every fibre of my being and strength of my magic.

Whatever it takes, no matter the cost, no matter the consequence.

_Godric Gryffindor_


	12. The Number of the beast is not 666 or 7

_Realising it has been months since I have even written a word, I found this bunny while searching for inspiration and decided to put it out there._

* * *

"Why would I make six Horcruxes?" asked Voldemort.

"Seven is a magically significant number," answered Harry as they circled each other warily, wands at the ready.

The Dark Lord smiled. It was a chilling sight.

"Very good, and yes, I once planned on making six containers for my soul, but then I thought 'if seven is significant, why not seven times seven?'"

Harry heard Hermione gasp.

"Forty nine?" Hermione whispered. "Impossible".

The Dark Lord let out a cruel bark of laughed.

"Not in the slightest," he said. "Only the first was even mildly difficult. By the time I reached forty nine, it no longer took any significant effort."

"No," said Harry, looking intently at his enemy. "You're lying, trying to trick us. I can see it in your eyes."

"True," admitted Voldemort easily. "After I reached that goal, I found myself asking, 'What is even more significant that seven times seven?'"

"Seven to the power of seven," whispered Hermione.

"Very good," said the Dark Lord with a look of annoyance at her for 'stealing his thunder'. "You may truly be as gifted as people say. Not that it will matter.

"So what say you now, Harry?" he continued, "Do you think you will be able to track down all of the pieces of my soul? Do you believe that even if you defeat me here, strike me down with some mighty magic the world has never seen, do think you will be able to find them all? No, I think not, and every day that passes will leave you weaker, wondering 'how long before he returns again? How long before he succeeds and kills me?'. You will never find peace Potter, and you will never find them all."

"He's right. They could be anywhere, anything!" said Ron.

Harry's mind was working furiously. They wouldn't be just 'anything'. He knew the Dark Lord well enough to know the man would have a plan, a grand ambitious plan that nobody would ever think of, that nobody else could be ambitious enough to even conceive.

Nobody except Harry.

"The Dark Mark," he said.

Voldemort's stopped smiling.

"That's why you brand all of your followers, isn't it? The Dark Mark is a Horcrux."

"Of course," said Hermuione excitedly. "That explains so much."

...

* * *

_A/N There is nothing in canon saying a Horcrux was HALF of his soul or had any sort of limit on how many he could create - that's pure fanon. Why else would there Voldemort seem so intent on killing so many, where did so many inferi in the cave protecting the locket come from if not from Voldemort murders, and it also gives a bit of a reason why he would put an easily identifiable mark on his followers. It may even have also made them more than just 'loyal' (think Nagini)._

_At least, that was the idea behind this, but I just never found a place to use it._


End file.
